Manners
by sherlockhead
Summary: Silly, dirty one-shot about Sherlock and John and a rather rude lesson in etiquette.


**I don't own any of the characters or stories from the BBC's Sherlock, deeply regrettably.**

**This terrible smutty little one-shot in which Sherlock fools around the same way he solves crimes: he's obnoxious and controlling and just generally a dick about it, but he is undeniably damn good at it. In this universe, John and Sherlock are already in a relationship, God help them both.**

**Definitely do not read if you're not into slash.  
**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John pushes his way through the front door of the flat, several overfull plastic bags weighing him down, saying over his shoulder, "You really don't see why you can't tip a waitress five pence, Sherlock? Five pence?" He's well and truly ticked off, and he doesn't wait for Sherlock as he rounds the corner through the doorway to the kitchen.

As John sets the groceries on the counter and starts to shrug out of his jacket, he hears the front door shut. "She was trying to chat you up. It was annoying," Sherlock says from the living room. There's the heavy sound of keys being tossed down onto the coffee table, and then a slightly petulant, "She smelled terrible, too."

John feels a smile coming on and quickly suppresses it, dumping a handful of change from out of his pocket on the tabletop and saying, "She works a crap job at a crap diner, probably to support her six kids, and you're complaining about her smell."

"Six kids? Her looks? Not likely." Sherlock steps into John's view through the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, shrugging his coat off. "She did like you though, John. I could tell." He looks up at John, smiling a little in a wry playful I'm-such-a-clever-Sherlock kind of way that, annoyingly, makes the cheekbones look rather good.

John rolls his eyes and starts looking through the bags to try to figure out which one has his frozen meals and Sherlock's frozen tongue specimens in it, trying to hide the fact that his face has gotten a little warm. "Someday, Sherlock," he says, finding that Bag #1 is just jars of pickles and eyeballs and peanut butter and moving on, "somebody's going to stab you, and it won't because you've sent their lover to jail or pissed off some mob boss, it'll be because you've been a total arse to them one too many times." He turns briefly to Sherlock, who's tossing his coat and scarf down onto the couch as he walks towards John in the kitchen. "Maybe it'll be me." He goes back to the groceries and starts rifling through the second bag to see if he can spot anything spongy and pink that looks like it was in a mouth once.

Someone presses up behind him and a pair of lanky arms wrap around him, one loosely reaching across his chest and the other encircling his torso, pulling him away from the bag. A strong nose presses into the hair on the top of his head as Sherlock murmurs in his deep quiet voice, "Maybe you just need to teach me some manners."

The back of John's neck prickles and tingles and he almost shivers, but instead he squirms forward and breaks out of Sherlock's arms. "Bugger off, I'm busy," he says, reaching for the jar of peanut butter in the bag in front of him, truly meaning it because he's still irritated, secretly hoping no won't be taken for an answer, just a bit.

Before he can even pick up the jar, Sherlock reaches round again and pulls John back from the counter and into himself, much closer and more tightly than before, so that there isn't a millimeter of space between their two bodies, his embrace now firmly pinning John's arms to his sides to prevent further dealings with food supplies. When he angles his head to kiss at the place just below John's earlobe where John's jaw begins, John feels his cheeks go from warm to hot and his heartbeat get elevated somewhat quickly, even as he sighs and says testily, "Oi, what do you want?"

Sherlock's hand slides from the place it rests on John's shoulder to the collar of John's button-down shirt. His long fingers deftly undo the first three buttons, leaving just the very top of John's chest exposed, and his thumb grazes over the bit of uncovered skin. Then his whole hand slips under the collar and inside. "Now you're the one being quite rude, aren't you," the low voice murmurs, as Sherlock's fingertips trail lightly over John's collarbone, pause at the dip in the middle to move down and stroke a lazy pattern over his chest, as his mouth moves to kiss the crook of John's shoulder and neck, then up to brush over John's ear, as his other hand moves slowly downwards to the now rather bulging front of John's trousers.

John's hips twitch a little, wanting to move forward into Sherlock's hand as it tugs down the zip on John's fly. Sherlock keeps kissing and caressing him so that most of his body is alive and hot. His hands have found their way to clutch at Sherlock's forearm across his chest, and try as he might he can't help but tilt his head to the side to expose more neck, his whole body thrilling at each small warm touch of Sherlock's lips and teeth.

Still, he has his honor, and Sherlock mustn't have the last word. "Only because you—oohh." John can't help the small moan as Sherlock's hand slides into his unzipped jeans and takes a hold of the very alert thing it finds there and slides, maddeningly slowly, along the length of it.

He feels Sherlock smirk into his neck at the involuntary sound, which drives him to restate, his voice only a little ragged as Sherlock's hand moves back, "Only because you deserve it." At another slow, tantalizing, wonderful stroke from base to tip, a deep shudder moves through him, and he feels the smirk just get wider, and it so irritates him and so turns him that his head tilts back and his eyes shut as an expression of both. "Because you're a wanker," he adds to the ceiling, a tad breathlessly.

Sherlock, instead of responding, simply picks up the pace, harder and faster, so John has to moan again, his head resting back against Sherlock's shoulder, then almost his whole body relaxing into Sherlock's, sweating and breathing hard and not bothering to hold back the sounds he has to make, letting the waves of warmth and pleasure take him over, and fairly soon there's a familiar sensation building up in the pit of his stomach, a white noise in his head growing louder and louder and pretty much erasing everything else except for the unbearably good feeling, and this is all soon going to culminate in a veyr predictable conclusion, and probably a particularly earth-shattering example of one too, judging by how he's going so out of his mind that he can barely see straight, and his hips shift forward and his chest draws tight and then Sherlock's hand stops moving at what could be called exactly the wrong moment.

John eyes open wide and he lifts his head sharply from Sherlock's shoulder, his hips bucking uselessly as Sherlock's hand loosens its grip, just when he _needs_ its grip more than bloody anything. John really wants to say something like _why did you stop, you bloody fucking git_, but he's still in the power of a feeling that somewhat reduces his abilities of speech and all he can manage is a sort of strangled, "Dammit, Sherlock."

Sherlock's other hand, which has been quite busy with John's upper body, comes out of John's shirt and moves up to slide into John's sweaty hair. Gently but firmly, he tilts John's head to the side and moves his lips right to John's ear and says very casually, "Now, if you're so keen on manners, why don't you say please."

Through gritted teeth, John manages, "Never. You. Total. Arse."

Sherlock's tongue clicks and he wordlessly shakes his head, and then he does something hard and fast and wicked with his thumb and forefinger that promptly brings John over the edge, as almost his whole body jerks forward and he cries out and his whole body fills with a supreme bliss. And then, when his knees buckle and he leans back into Sherlock breathing hard, a supreme irritation at this controlling obnoxious dick who just gave him one of the best orgasms of his entire life.

He feels Sherlock reach around him one more time, just to shortly zip up his pants, and then he releases John and step back so suddenly that John's tired out body almost loses its balance. Thankfully, there's a chair available and John can fall into it, as Sherlock rips a paper towel from the roll next to the sink and wipes his somewhat sullied hand on it and tosses it neatly into the rubbish bin. He briefly looks down at John, who's trying to glare at him but probably looking a bit too disheveled and exhausted and happy for it to be succeeding.

"No tip?" he asks, and then turns and starts out of the room.

In an instant, John spots the handful change he'd left on the table, which includes a five pence piece. He picks it up and chucks it at Sherlock, whose right hand flashes out and grabs it out of the air just as he rounds the corner and is out of sight.


End file.
